


little hearts

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anniversaries, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 11:18:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3379565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ten years is tin, but we'll ignore that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	little hearts

**Author's Note:**

> don't write for this fandom anymore, but posting for the sake of... keepsakes? filling space? also: not beta-ed, and everyone gasps in shock.

Castiel trots down Barker and Lot with a sense of melancholy, pensive sadness climbing the rungs of his already aching muscles. The weather doesn’t help.

 

His steps are hardly condescending, he isn’t going out of his way to splash in puddles—but for some reason, he feels like the water around him is angry. For rain, it’s pretty dry; it leaves a dew on his cheeks and the wind whips him raw. There’s something about dark weather that sinks into his bones. There isn't much to see, but it feels like there are hundreds of pores opening in his skin.

There’s water on his calves, thunder ringing in his ears, and saltwater burning in his throat.

He’s cold and damp when he finally makes it to the office, his teeth sandpapering his tongue. His jaw is aching likes he’s been crunching pearls. Astaras in Finances looks up, tired, and flashes him a sympathetic smile. “Your partner dropped off lunch in your office.”

Castiel nods. It might be a bouquet. Ten years is tin, but Dean was never one for tradition. Actually, scratch the bouquet. Maybe it really is just lunch. The prospect of a homemade meal makes him smile for some reason; perhaps the break of a routine he’d never thought of as jaded is a relief.

Sure enough, in his office, there lies a paper bag containing precisely a tuna melt and a sticky-note. Love you. It’s plausible Dean has something prepared at home, but he likes to think this is all. They don’t need to celebrate a good ten years anyhow. They’ve been rejoicing every day, with soft-edged smiles and shared blankets.

He remembers many things, and he will start with this: he is in love. He is in love when he wakes up, and when he reads the paper, and when he bathes, and kisses, and laughs, and when he goes to sleep again.

He’d let Dean go at any given moment if it were better for the man—but never for anyone else.

His husband has angels in his eyes. They are twinkling and thin and easier to see when Dean’s eyes are wet, but they are there nevertheless. Flowers in his fingertips and leftover kisses between his teeth. Marks of marriage leaving small scars on their bodies, maps rather than constellations.

They aren’t romantic, and they aren’t rough, and if Castiel were being dry, he’d called it a passive kind of love. But the truth is, it’s carefree with all the caution in the world. There are limits and drawn lines and shadowed corners they just can’t speak about. But it's all right. They’re used to it, and they feel safe in it.

When he gets home, all of this intensifies, rushing down his spine and licking up his thighs. A soft affection ripens just beneath his neck at the sight of his husband.

Dean is in the garden, hunched over a cranberry plant, weathered hands trying to coax a not-quite-ripe berry off with the rest of the bunch. “Oh well, fella. You just stay there, then,” he hears the man mutter.

“Afternoon.” Dean looks up, and sighs quietly.

“It wasn’t spectacular, I know.”

Castiel smiles, and walks closer, looking down to see the fruits bundled up in a basket by his husband’s ankle. “It was fine.” He hooks a finger around Dean’s collar and tugs him forward. “That’s all we ever seem to need.”

Dean’s hands curl up, resting on his shoulders. It’s a sweet sort of gesture. “I feel old.”

“You are old, you hooligan. You can barely get it up in bed.” Dean laughs, and shoves him, stepping over the bush so he can clamber up Castiel’s legs like a child. And like a child, Castiel can press a kiss to his bare stomach while Dean yelps, head tossed over his shoulder. “I am not averse to anything spectacular you have in mind, though.”

The man thrown over his shoulder makes a sound that cannot even be generously described as something other than a purr, but Castiel jabs him and moves far away from that conversation. (It is not a conversation to be had in a garden, and certainly not one to be had when his lips cannot do anything without blowing raspberries in the other participant’s stomach.) “I know you like road trips.”

“Ah doo, sur,” Dean pushes out some ridiculous Kansas drawl, and Castiel takes him inside, for the sake of the children, making sure Dean doesn’t hit his head on the doorframe. “That’s not a sex position, is it?”

“Not to my knowledge, no. Although you never know, not in a world like this.” Lazy fingers roll around in his hair, languid strokes and pulls, and Castiel glances to his right at the man, nuzzling his cheek. “What do you want for dinner?”

Dean hums gently, mumbling lyrics to some silent love song. Castiel seats him gingerly on the edge of the table, running his forefinger along the crevices of Dean's face. The freckled man leans into his touch, sleepy and content, still carrying on his broken song. “Alfredo.”

Castiel wrinkles his nose. "I'm terrible at that recipe and you know it."

“It's my anniversary!” Dean whines, kicking his legs up and hooking them around Castiel's shoulders with a flexibility Castiel knows all too well.

They end up with two plates of Alfredo, and they both know exactly how it happened: with grumbling and coaxing and groping and more complaining. Dean makes a point of moaning whenever he takes a bite, kicking Castiel beneath the table. “Don’t be obscene,” Castiel mutters, but he’s choking on a smile he knows Dean can see.

“Do you wanna watch a movie later?” Dean asks, slightly more sobered now, although his lips are puckered in that god-awful petulant manner.

“I have wanted to watch Wall-E for a while,” Castiel says. “Oh, hush.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Laughter ripples through Dean’s voice.

They always watch movies like this. They start out curled up on the couch, making passing remarks about the film, and then they end up on the floor, snorting and shoving. Dean is flicking him, but when he glances up, the man cocks an eyebrow.

At some point, Dean decides bowls are juvenile, and tips one over Castiel’s head. There’s a crown of buttery knobs in his hair now, but he’s enraptured by Wall-E’s reenactment of what might be The Sound of Music. Dean’s heartbeat thrums against his neck. Popcorn flits around, Dean switching between picking the abused entities out of Castiel’s hair and pressing kisses to his forehead.

The movie is incredibly endearing, and Castiel sometimes takes hold of Dean’s shoulders to make sure the man sees it.

“I want a robot,” Castiel announces. Dean narrows his eyes, shifting so they’re more evenly aligned.

“No.”

When the movie ends, Dean is half asleep, chin knuckling Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel watches him quietly.

He brushes a finger along the arc of the man’s left eyebrow, tracing his eyes and cheekbones and chin. Dean hums quietly, an old habit Castiel has never questioned.

Everything is soft and dark and simple. He stands up slowly, groaning when his knees pop and his thighs ache. Pulling Dean up with him, he shuffles towards the bedroom, fully prepared for a quiet night. And Dean doesn’t protest, just trudges behind him. They seem spellbound: this is far from the zenith of their love, but it’s also far from bittersweet.

The bed seems fuller than usual, limbs dragging on for what seems like miles, all tangled and knotted. The odd pinprick of light punctuates the darkness. They’re shrouded in warmth and touch and a floaty expanse of shadow.

“Love you,” Dean murmurs into a pocket of warmth between his shoulder and Castiel’s nose.

“You too.”


End file.
